the illusionist
by mako-lies
Summary: Kevin is slipping. And Crowley won't get out of his head.


Contains: imagined pseudo-incest, past possession, mindfuck, mentions of torture, imagined gore, and descent into madness.

Set between 9.02 and 9.06.

* * *

Blood flows from Crowley's wrists to the floor; Kevin can smell it, can nearly taste it, and his stomach flips over and over, bile rising back up into his already-raw throat. Crowley watches Kevin pant in the doorway, and Crowley's smile is wide and his eyes are dark. Kevin trembles, nails curled into the flesh of his palms—he could rip and tear and shred because it's the familiar scruffy face. Not the familiar dear one he fears.

It was a dream. A nightmare. Whatever. "Get out of my head," he snarls, and his nails break skin.

"Kev, it's so cozy in here. Why would I want to leave?" Crowley hums, still-bleeding over his thick metal cuffs, the chair somehow doesn't make him seem small. All the shadows of the room, of the bunker, coalesce into Crowley;his mouth curls into that smirk—

_the red gleam of her eyes, twist of a smirk that doesn't belong to her face— she slams kevin against the wall. his teeth rattle in his skull . " m om . " a high whine, no air filling his lungs, fled with the horror . "mom, please — " her mouth collides hot and acrid with his, she digs bruises into his jaw, holding him in place for her tongue—_

The vision fades again. Kevin curls fingers tightly into his hair. Sharp burst of pain as he tugs at the strands. Reality. Reality is the lift of Crowley's laughter as he watches Kevin slip back into his body,the not-quite King of Hell waiting for Kevin to come back to him. And Kevin does. His bare feet slap against the ice-cold floor, then he comes to loom over Crowley. "Where is she?" His voice is rough from retching, like he rubbed his throat down with sandpaper.

"Mind your temper, Kev." Crowley rolls his eyes, bored, bored with Kevin. "You already spoke with squirrel about this. You know there's nothing left."

_Family._ Kevin is family, the words coiling hot around his skull, like Crowley's, like God's, and he's so so so done with language and words, and regurgitating the words of others. Crowley rubs his wrists raw faster than his sluggish demon-human blood can heal.

_his hands torn off at the wrists, the whole boat stinks of blood and sweat, puddles and puddles of it, a lake of it,kevin slips in his own blood, before his legs — his legs are —_

Crowley laughs crow-like while his watches Kevin like it's Demon Christmas. Halloween? A headache forms behind Kevin's eyes, like a gathering electric storm, striking harder that his average, everyday drizzle-headaches. He grabs fistfuls of Crowley's collar, knuckles resting against the heat of Crowley's throat. "Get out of my fucking head. Get out!"

Kevin shakes Crowley hard as he can, barely budging him. The shackles clink with the force, a sharp satisfying sound, but it's nowhere near enough. "What are you seeing?" Crowley's voice is almost-soft—sky's the limit for you and I—and Kevin clenches the fabric tighter.

"You know." Kevin can't breathe, gasping like death is squeezing his throat, can't look away as Crowley keeps his gaze locked down (which of them is the prisoner here?). "You know because you made it! Get out of my head!"

"Kev. If I could do anything, do you really think I'd still be in this godforsaken Trap? You're smarter than that, sweetheart." He frowns at Kevin, mouth all twisted up, then that fucking smirk curls across his chapped lips. "You're not wrong, exactly. I did make you." Something abrasive squeezes in Kevin's chest, still can't turn away—he should. He should listen to Sam and Dean, should never come in here, but he can't—he can't go back to sleep, can't slink back to his closet.

"Shut up." It would be so easy to wrap his hands over the pale expanse of Crowley's throat, squeeze all the air out like Crowley did to Kevin, but what would the point be without the knife or bomb?

Crowley laughs, head tilted back, throat fucking bared for Kevin. For Kevin's hands. "I did make you, sweetheart. That sweet summer child you used to be? You're nothing like him. Not by half. Running from me, hiding in little rat holes, losing everything—that belongs to me. You can't ever be rid of me. Even if I'm gone, you'll always be looking back over your shoulder for me. Kev, you can never be free."

_shivering, winter in the midwest, he'd meant to get out of here, before the snow, but his cough rattles deep and wet in his chest — a half-formed devil trap on the ceiling, stolen spray paint just out of reach. his breath is frozen, and his nose would drip drip if it weren't so cold. footsteps. kevin curls in on himself, can't be invisible. demon? not a demon. "hey, kid," slow slippery voice, then icy hands on his shoulders —_

His breath is ragged, a patchwork of air to the brain, can feel the chill fingers prying in his chest, squeezing. Kevin grips Crowley's collar tighter, the only thing anchoring him, and Crowley could huff and puff and blow Kevin down. He can feel the impression of stubble against his skin. Who is more unkempt? But Crowley is warm, and Kevin comes nearer till his knees bump Crowley's. "When you're dead." His voice sounds breathy, high. "When you're dead, I'm going to leave this fucking pit, and I'm going to do everything I set out to do. Just to spite you."

"I love it when you're hateful. Adds this wonderful color to your cheeks. But if you're doing it to spite me, Kev, it's still all me, isn't it?" That fucking smile, smug fucking smile that Kevin sees awake and asleep, everywhere, that smile is everywhere, like the Cheshire Cat's—

Kevin's fist collides solidlywith the real curl of Crowley's lips. His knuckles sting hotly at the impact, but the swelling loss of that nightmare smile, the growl Crowley lets out, eyes bright on Kevin's fist, is a relief.

_whose?_

He catches his breath, finally. Finally can breathe as if he is a real boy. "That hateful enough for you?"

"Would be better with a razor," Crowley quips.

_so many little uses for his pinkie kevin hadn't thought of. stability. if he played the cello ever again, he would never sound whole again. his mom would sit in the audience with a solid rock face, tell him that he was good, but kevin would know better. lie lie lie lie lie_

Kevin considers it. He considers the thick flow of blood spilling over his hands, considers slicing and dicing, and then. Blood, he can see the blood, and his stomach rolls, yesterday's coffee already thrown up this morning. There's nothing left.

"Get out of my head." Now his voice is a whisper, pleading desperate, as if he is the one tied up in the dead men's bunker, hell, maybe he is. It wouldn't surprise him at this point. "Please, Crowley."

Laughter. Crowley is laughing at him, again, but his eyes are fever-bright, hungry-wolf desperate. "And what would I get in return, Kev? Back scratches all around, and all that." His sulphur is heady in the air, and even after reading the demon tablet, Kevin still can't decipher the evolutionary purpose of smelling like rotten eggs all the time.

Maybe there doesn't have to be a reason. Funny, Kevin stopped believing in anything had a purpose when he had to start believing in God.

Life is just one giant joke, and death is the punchline.

"I'm not letting you go," Kevin snarls—he could claw out crowley's eyes, dig them out of that stolen skull with his bitten-to-the-quick fingernails, and the blood would drip drip drip, and kevin could laugh, loud and echoing in this silent fucking cement tomb.

"Naturally," says Crowley with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, I won't go poking around in that lovely skull of yours, provided you come and keep me company. Six hours a week, minimum. You do that, and I won't come to play with your grapefruit. Fair?"

Kevin tries to breathe despite Crowley's gaze fixed on Kevin's face. The room spins, tilts on its axis, and he could scream and scream in the bunker, and only Crowley could hear him. He breathes in, then out out. In, then out out. Kevin swallows thickly around the bubbling useless scream. "How do I know you'll keep your end of it?"

"Don't play coy. Now, pucker up, sweetheart."

His mouth is dry dry dry as his orchestra teacher's humor. But he whispers, "Okay," against Crowley's chapped lips.


End file.
